Magical Musings
by ReneeHart
Summary: A collection of one-shots/drabbles based off of prompts I have received. Characters, genres and universes will vary depending on prompt requested/how I interpreted it, but the primary focus will most likely be on Tom Riddle/Hermione Granger, Tom Riddle/Harry Potter.
1. A Wedding at Malfoy Manor

**Author's Note:** I just wanted to collect and archive all of the prompts I have received, and figured I may as well post them. Each chapter is a different drabble/one shot, and can be about anything or anyone in the Harry Potter world, but I will preface it with a summary so as to not waste anyone's time.

 **Prompt:** A wedding ceremony between Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle. Enjoy.

 **A Wedding at Malfoy Manor**

Hermione gave herself one final look in the mirror, her reflection distorted by the gossamer veil that sat atop her head and fell to just below her shoulders, her honey colored curls tamed beneath it. Shaking hands smoothed over the front of her voluminous skirt and she closed her eyes as she inhaled sharply, a useless attempt to settle her nerves. It was silly, really, how someone as confident and poised as herself was not exempt from the ball of twine winding in her stomach as she awaited for the moment she would walk through the double doors and down the makeshift aisle. She had never been one to fantasize about her wedding and to create a perfect man that any future love interests would then be held up against, preferring instead to keep to her books, to dream instead of adventure and escapism than of domestic living.

That had all been before Tom Riddle, though. And just as he was the only one who had ever once made her heart beat in an unsteady rhythm as though it had forgotten what came natural to it, he had made the thought of standing arm in arm seem desirable. Something to covet, even.

Behind the fog of her veil, she saw herself smile, chewing her bottom lip. She had known him for a long time, had grown up beside him when she was left behind at the orphanage with nothing to cling to but a favorite sweater and hope despite the bitter chill, the remaining pressure behind her eyes as she thought about the loss of her parents. He was not cruel like the other children, did not consider her a freak for the strange things that happened when she was around, as the magic she did not yet know she possessed worked through her. He was startlingly kind, in his own ways, with eyes that softened when he looked to her and a readiness to defend her when others wanted her to hurt.

She did not always agree with his methods, especially when they began attending Hogwarts and an entire arsenal of hexes and curses were practically handed to them. But despite how often they would fight, she could never deny that there was a pull between, a connection that was far stronger than any other she had experienced or witnessed.

" _You're a monster, you know. I don't much care for how quick you are to dole out punishment,"_ she had told him once, frowning sternly as she sat beside him.

He seemed nonplussed by her criticism, smirking instead as though the mantle of monster were a crown worth flaunting. _"Typically, when someone defends a fair lady's honor, he is considered a knight in shining armor, not a beast,"_ had been his only response.

" _It wasn't my honor. It was some insipid fifth year calling me a mudblood because his finite intelligence couldn't summon a better insult. You really didn't need to literally rearrange his face- where did you find that spell anyway? Never mind, the fact is, you attacked someone for a relatively minor offense,"_ she admonished with a shrug. _"That makes you a monster, not a hero."_

" _Same thing,"_ he had muttered.

And despite her frustration with his dismissal, and the terribly grinding realization that her words had little impact- that he would never stop himself from cursing someone just because she didn't approve of it- she only ever grew closer to him. Perhaps she was drawn to his charisma, to his ability to wield the attention of an entire room with nothing more than his smile. Or his appreciation of academia and their long arguments and debates as they sat under the foliage of an ancient tree, forgetting the world around them and often running late to class as a result. Perhaps it was because despite the many women fluttering around him and giggling like fools, he chose her- the plainest and least remarkable of them all.

Because to him, she was nothing less than extraordinary, a powerful witch to be revered.

Pulling herself from her thoughts, she smiled wistfully at her reflection before turning from it and heading towards the courtyard. She had not known quite how Tom convinced the Malfoys to allow use of their home for their small ceremony, considering that her blood purity- or lack thereof- was well known and well despised among the regal family. A part of her knew that it required some more arm pulling than either would care to admit, and she hoped that arm pulling had been the worst of it.

Despite that however, the setting had been beautifully decorated, and she paused in awe for a moment as she walked onto the marble floor of the veranda.

The courtyard and its garden were exactly as ostentatious and over the top as one would expect of the Malfoys, with a large fountain in the center that depicted a young maiden carved from stone, a snake entwining itself around her torso and rising to loop over her neck and gaze into the unseeing eyes. Her body was draped lazily by a cloak that hung onto her, leaving her breasts exposed in a 'v' formation, one hand lifted as though to hold the serpent closer to her.

Placed in front of the steps of the fountain was the altar, a surprisingly simple design with with cross sections of wood forming a lattice, ivy weaved through it with brilliantly white roses poking through. Beneath the fanning of flora, Tom stood waiting for her, dressed handsomely in black dressrobes and his ebony curls neatly pushed back. Dark eyes met hers, flicking away as he drunk in her image, and then he smiled, the action not quite meeting his eyes. It never does, though.

The ceremony was informal, with only several guests in attendance- close friend's of Tom that regarded Hermione as though they both feared and cherished her. She nodded at each in turn, smiling softly, as she finally approached the small dais, coming to stand beside Tom in front of the Ministry officiant.

"Beautiful as always, my darling," Tom whispered to her, leaning in close as the elderly wizard began speaking the vows of the traditional handfasting. "I can almost forgive you for insisting on all this pomp and circumstance."

She suppressed a snort, turning to look away so that he couldn't see her roll her eyes. "I hardly think this is considered a grievous indulgence," she muttered back, her fingers twisting nervously before she reached out her hand, the wizard wrapping a single silver rope over her wrist before doing the same to Tom. "Besides, you owe me, for all you put me through."

He ignored her, a small smirk twitching on the corner of his lips as another golden band was applied, tying them together once more. Several more bands are wrapped around them, each of a different color, and each tied with a different promise, a separate vow.

 _'May passion and love fill each moment of your days, never to settle as the years drift by, and only growing stronger...'_

 _'May serenity accompany you in your journey through life together, and contentedness with all of life's misgivings knowing that you are by each others' side...'_

 _'May good fortune reside over you, for together you are blessed and beloved...'_

Several minutes pass, and by the end of it they were locked at the wrists, ten different chords in a plethora of colors binding them to one another. The final one- a white rope of knotted hemp- was wrapped around them once more, crossing over the others.

" _And with this final chord, will you be bound together in matrimony, to spend a lifetime with the other and your vows of promise. To never abandon, to never forsake, and to protect above all...with this final chord, you are now husband and wife, and you may seal the bond with a kiss..."_

Tom pulled her closer then, flush against him with their hands serving as the only barrier, awkwardly wound together. Using his free hand, he grasped hold of her veil, flipping it over to reveal her narrow face and her pink lips, slipping between her teeth as she shifted under his intense gaze. Swooping down, he kissed her, gently at first, his lips meeting her own before he becomes more insistent, nipping onto her bottom lip with his teeth. It does not take long for the chords to slip away into nothingness, dissolving with the magic as if falling like shackles. She smiled against his lips, bringing her newly freed hand to cup his cheek.

"Now that you're my husband, will you listen to me more?" she asked, pulling away only slightly.

He shrugged, one side of his mouth tipping upward into a crooked smile. "I doubt it."

-xXx-

 **Author's Note:** To request a story, send me an ask at my tumblr: reneehartblog (it's what I respond most efficiently to)


	2. Hogwarts's Finest Jokesters

**Author's Note:** Yeah, I'm sorry about this one.

 **Prompt:** "You're alive?" with Fred and George Weasley.

 **Hogwarts's Finest Jokesters**

The air is stagnant, no longer alive with the electricity of magic, of curses slicing through and cutting the sky into two. It smells of nothing, so noticeably devoid of scent that it makes George crinkle his nose. Absent is the putrid smell of burning flesh, of metallic blood slicked over the floors. It's entirely static, as if the battle has been put on hold, paused for this very moment.

And so is George, his breath held in his throat as his chest and stomach clench involuntarily at the sight before him. The sight he thought he would never again be graced with.

"You're alive?" he says, and yet his voice seems to not carry, lost in the void of the stagnant world where his head is buzzing and waves are crashing over him, echoing in the caverns of his skull so he can hear nothing, see nothing. Pinhole vision honing in on the form of his brother. His dead brother who he was mourning only moments earlier, mourning during the lull in the battle that had dissipated around him. He could still taste blood in his mouth, like dirty pennies on his tongue, from where he bit so hard on the inside of his cheek and his throat was still raw from where he had yelled and scream and _No, this is a prank. This is a terrible joke, and it isn't funny Fred. No one is laughing, it isn't funny, so stop it now. Mum and Dad are crying, and she will kill you for real when you sit up and tell her it was a joke._

And he is angry, because it was a joke all along and _it wasn't funny_ and he was crying instead of laughing and how could he do this to them? But his anger is gone as swiftly as it has come, another twinge in the prison of his chest where his heart pulses erratically from the curses he has been dealt and from the emotion. And he is awash in relief, he is so happy that yes, he's laughing now. It wasn't funny at first but now it is, and his eyes prickle from the tears that break free, he bends at the waist as he rests his hands on his knees. It is so funny now.

"You must not have seen Mum. You would definitely be dead then if she knew you were faking," he says, and Fred only grimaces, the smile lines permanently etched into his face gone as he grits. His lip trembles and _why aren't you laughing Fred? Wasn't it funny?_

And Fred is crying now too, but it isn't like the tears of relief drawing from the well of joy and mirth that fill George's eyes. They are bitter and George imagines that he can taste the salt on his own lips even as they slide down the familiar curves of Fred's face. "I-I'm sorry," he says, through a broken sob and the sound is so wrong and foreign on the other Weasley twin that it instantly silences George's laughter.

"It was a bad prank, but nothing to be sorry for," he says, stepping tentatively forward. And he is suddenly aware of how empty it is- of how not even the sound of his shoes on the floor make an impression in the voice. There is no echo to follow them, no clamor of war to pulsate from the walls. He can no longer hear the curses being spoken. The spells being screamed above the flashes of reds and greens and purples. Air on fire.

How long was he unconscious from the curse that still remained clutching onto his heart, like icy fingers around the organ? Was it over? Did they win?

And then he sees someone else, a figure jumping down the steps of a staircase that was perfect and whole and not crumbling around him like everything else. A mop of messy black hair bounces as he takes them two at a time, a hand raising to push the glasses up the bridge of his slim nose and again George is laughing, forgetting the solemn tone lacing Fred's words. Forgetting everything except _he is alive._

 _He is alive, he is alive, he is alive._

" _Harry!"_ he says, waving over the wizard who looks surprisingly clean and not disheveled and uninjured. "Fred! It's Fred!"

And as if remembering his brother, he lunges forward, arms wrapping around him and pulling him in tight. The embrace is not returned, hands raising to grip his elbows as he begins shaking, trembling beneath the arms as his sobs become louder and more incessant. He does not know why Fred is crying, but he doesn't care. The prat deserves it! He should be cursed to cry the amount of tears he inspired with his cruel prank.

Harry is moving closer to them, cautiously approaching the pair with a smile that is skewed to one side and Harry never smiled like that. His smiles were wide, toothy grins, green eyes sparkling. But the lopsided smile does not belong to Harry, and it isn't Harry at all because his eyes are no longer the color of a forest on a bright spring day but hazel. They are fractured, like a kaleidoscope of honeys and browns and blues and gold. But not green.

His arms fall, suddenly heavy as if weights had been tied to them and he looks from the Not-Harry to Fred, who is no longer crying but is still looking at him with sad eyes.

 _He is not alive. Fred was killed._

 _He is not alive. He is not alive._

 _This is not Harry, this is not Harry._

" _I'm sorry,"_ Fred says again, and this time he understands that it is not because of a joke that wasn't a joke after all.

-xXx-

 **Author's Note:** I'm a monster.

Request at Tumblr: Reneehartblog


	3. Pomegranate Seeds

**Prompt:** "Will you feed me six pomegranate seeds?" with pairing of my choosing. I chose Tomione, with a Dark!Hermione.

 **Pomegranate Seeds**

Hermione huffed, dropping her books down with a thump on the table. Tom turned to look at her, one end of his lips quirking into a smirk as she met him with a heated glower. He placed his quill down, folding his hands in front of him as he said, "What happened now? Malfoy again?"

She growled at the name, tossing the chair beside him out too roughly as she dropped herself into it. "The unbelievably pompous, arrogant, vain, slimy, boorish-"

"Do you actually intend to get to the point, or do you just plan to list adjectives for the rest of the night?"

She sent him a withering glare, lips pinched in frustration as if the physical restraint of it was the only thing trapping in her harsh retorts.

"Don't start with me, as well. I've had about my fill of Slytherins for today. Purebloods and their archaic beliefs. Acting as if they're better simply because they're the product of generational incest and have Ancient Roman and Greek names, when they wouldn't be able to spell their way out of a wet paper bag," she muttered.

"Is someone jealous that they aren't named Agrippa or Demeter?" he teased.

"No, I'm jealous my father isn't also my cousin, clearly," she said, Tom chuckling from deep within his throat.

"Well, I hope you taught him a proper lesson in respecting you," He said, picking his quill up once more as he began to continue working on his Ancient Runes assignment.

Her eyes lit up then, feverish and manic as she smiled shyly. "It was a punishment fitting of the Greek and Roman Gods themselves, I assure you." His quill paused, only for a moment, as he flicked his eyes up at her before returning them to his parchment. It was only a matter of time before Malfoy pushed the powerful witch too far, and he was all too encouraging of it, if he were honest. He had long since been trying to appeal to her more primal impulses, showing her how to take back and assert the power others tried to steal from her. If Malfoy was the casualty required in this endeavor, so be it.

"And if anything, I'm an Athena," she mumbled, and he smiled at that.

"I'd argue Persephone," he responded.

She furrowed her brows, a question in its own right.

"You'll be Queen of the Underworld in no time, my Love," he answered, and she continued to stare at him, her eyes quizzical and her lips slightly parted, pink tongue darting out to wet them. It was the same look she gave him every time she was uncertain of his sincerity, if he was merely playing the role of a monster or if he were a monster playing the role of man. She was resistant to him, at times, which made it that much sweeter a temptation to turn her away from the light and the from the Gryffindors who ignored her because she was smarter than they could appreciate, wilder than they could tame.

After what felt like a lifetime of scrutiny under her look, she finally settled back, smirking in a way that mirrored his own. Tilted to the side, not quite reaching her eyes. "Well, than in that case will you feed me six pomegranate seeds?"

-xXx-


	4. Battle Scars

**Author's Note:** I've been dying to do a Tomarry but haven't had any inspiration yet for a one-shot or full length fic.

 **Prompt:** "Why would you be worried about me when I've given you no reason to be?" with pairing of my choice, and I chose Tom Riddle/Harry Potter.

 **Battle Scars**

"I'm worried about you," Tom said slowly, his words harsh despite the tender meaning of the words. Concern was inherently tender- or at least at should have been, when someone other than Tom Riddle was expressing it.

Harry scoffed, indignantly. "Why would you be worried about me when I've given you no reason to be?"

Tom's brows rose, almost comically. "Either you've developed a brilliant and cunning wit since last we spoke, or you are exactly as ignorant as I have long suspected you to be."

The insult- or was it a joke? There was often very little definition between the two where Tom was concerned- did nothing to abate Harry's growing frustration, and he balled his hand into a fist, fingernails digging into soft flesh. He hated the wizard- more than he hardly could stand- yet it was on the bedrock of hatred that they built the structure of their relationship. A symbiotic and poisonous relationship where one needed the other to live and breathe. They used each other- Harry using Tom for his intimate knowledge of Voldemort and of the horcruxes, and Tom using Harry as a vessel into the world, a parasite feeding off of his blood and tissue and bones. And from the necessity, it had only grown into something chaotic and confusing, manifesting into a shameful and sinful secret.

Neither ever discussed what would happen when one achieved their end. It was better that way.

Turning his back from the wizard, he peeled off his shirt, the cloth sticky to the tacky blood from the slash across his chest. A painful wound that pulsed, angry with dark magic from whatever cursed Bellatrix had used in the battle, the skin of his torso purple and black and looking entirely rotten. As if he were decaying from the center of the injury.

He heard Tom hiss from behind him, but ignored it as he fumbled for his wand, trying with clumsy hands that shook with pain and adrenaline to fix it. And then Tom was in front of him, pulling the wand from his grasp and training it on the wound with a steadied and practiced grace, lips pursed as the fingertips of his free hand brushed lightly on Harry's shoulder. A pleasant warmth pooled in his stomach as the wand emitted a golden glow that wrapped around him like bandages, the tearing and searing pain settling into a dull ache.

"You show up maimed, turn your wand on yourself to fix a curse- no doubt only to do further damage given your less than enthusiastic report with healing spells- and then have the gall to ask me why I'm worried? Bloody Gryffindor," Tom muttered, earning himself a proper scowl.

"Self-Righteous Slytherin."


End file.
